


Trading Places

by a_posteriori (stultiloquent)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 16:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stultiloquent/pseuds/a_posteriori
Summary: Tim blinks, and Roman can see the exact moment his expression shutters and the PR training kicks in. The kid is well-versed in putting on faces - Roman has seen him model his own playboy smile after Wayne himself, but right here and now, Tim is all business and cutthroat cunning, and that is the face of a Drake, through and through. Roman wonders if the kid keeps a catalogue of all the masks he wears day-to-day, wonders how far that catalogue stretches into his own walk-in closet.Written for Romin Week 2021: Day 2 — Corporate/Office Setting.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Roman Sionis, Tim Drake/Roman Sionis
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: Romin Week 2021





	Trading Places

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was meant to be a no capes au, but it's pretty canon-compliant as well, taking heavy inspiration from the Red Robin series and its idea of what being a CEO is like. I haven't spent enough years working in the corporate world myself so if anything seems out of place in this story that's because I was making shit up. 
> 
> As far as fics with Roman go the violence in this is relatively tame, but I've included the more spoilery warnings in the end notes if you'd like to take a peek first.

On Wednesday, Roman takes the limousine to the Wayne Enterprises headquarters.

He watches the city streets pass by his window, the view transitioning from the ugly parts of Gotham to the glitz and glam that surrounds the Tower. Run-down corner stores, exposed brickwork, and obscene graffiti that the district council has clearly given up on cleaning give way to high-rises and boutique stores. Where there are still the occasional dealer, working girls, and the odd panhandler on his streets (and he's going to have to do something about that), this district belongs only to well-dressed men and young women who know what they want and how to get there.

Roman's been on both sides of the city. Everything he has now, he's had to fight for it all himself. This car, the chauffeur, the suits he wears now, all of it on his own dime. He's earned back so much that he's lost. But there's still one more thing, and he won't rest until he's gotten it back.

The car rolls to a stop right in front of the glass doors. He steps out of it, his personal assistant quickly scrambling out behind him before the car drives off. Roman pays her no mind. He straightens his lapels, squares his shoulder, and marches into the building.

There's minimal fussing once the receptionist takes his name. In this city, appearance is everything. And loath as he is to admit it, the Sionis name still carries a certain weight to it. Whether that weight translates to good publicity or not is another question entirely. But it won't matter by the time Roman's done. He'll make damn sure they only have good things to say about him and his legacy after he walks out of here.

They ride the elevator all the way to the top floor, where Wayne's secretary greets them. Or would have, if the first words out of her mouth weren't — "Sorry, but Mr. Wayne is out of office right now."

This appointment was scheduled ahead of time. Wayne said he was _available_.

Roman leaves it to his PA to sort it out with the secretary. It won't do for him to get mad over this minor detail now. It's just a small hiccup. Just a small hiccup.

Fifteen minutes later, they hear the chime of the elevator. The doors roll open, and out steps Timothy Drake-Wayne in his usual red Armani button-down and black Brioni suit. At his heels is another secretary, a petite woman in yet another pencil skirt.

Do they dress all the women the same here?

Tim's grip is deceptively gentle when they shake hands. "How are you, Mr. Sionis?" He asks as they walk into the board room, their assistants trailing quietly behind them.

"Just peachy," Roman deadpans.

"I'm sorry Bruce couldn't see you, he's away on a trip for the rest of the month," Tim says as he's gesturing for Roman to sit onto one of the armchairs.

"Oh yes. WE's opening a new office in Hong Kong, isn't it?"

"Oh, no. It's more... a personal leave, and less a business trip. But we've got Lucius running things smoothly in his absence—"

"As usual," Roman says with all the grace of a deliberate jab. So Wayne would rather play hooky than spend an hour entertaining his requests on a Wednesday. Fucking typical.

"As usual," Tim allows, unfazed. "I'm under strict orders to look after the company to the best of my ability as well. And that extends to our family friends."

His smile is as hollow as his words when he speaks. The secretary stops by, placing two cups of French pressed coffee onto the table between them, brewed to perfection and at just the right temperature. Tim thanks her and cradles the saucer close.

"How may I help you, Mr. Sionis?" He says after he takes a sip. Roman's coffee sits untouched.

He leans forward on his elbows. "Let's cut the bullshit, _Drake_." Roman enunciates the last syllable deliberately just to watch him flinch. It's a well-known secret what the kid had had to do to climb to where he is today. The official story goes that Wayne took pity on the kid in the wake of his parents' untimely death, but to go from that to being a senior executive within just four years? Let's just say Roman's not the only one speculating there's more going on behind closed doors.

But the little brat doesn't give him the satisfaction, doesn't so much as frown at his little jab. Roman grits his teeth.

"I want my company back."

"Ah." Tim inhales slowly, pacing himself. The clink of porcelain against glass tabletop rings crisply as he replaces the coffee onto the table. "Mr. Sionis, this... is beyond my purview."

"Then why the hell did they send you, if you can't speak on Wayne's behalf?"

And that gets a rise out of Tim. His eyes light up in annoyance, like he wants to say, I am a Wayne, but he holds it behind his teeth - probably already used to glances and whispers of the same ilk in the office corridors. He's always pretending to be in control and oh so adult. Roman wants to push until Tim loses control.

But the young man regains his footing easily. "You misunderstand me, Mr. Sionis," he chuckles, and it's a sound that's caught between incredulity and embarrassment - like he's _embarrassed_ for Roman. God, Roman hates his guts. "This isn't something Bruce would be able to consign, either. I know, to the rest of the world it may look like Bruce calls the shots, but he's really more of a figurehead. Even if I, Bruce, and Lucius all rally behind this decision, we would still have to submit it to the board."

The implication that Roman is relegated to the same rank as "the rest of the world" isn't lost on him. And damn him, it's getting under Roman's skin.

Roman grits his teeth. "And are you? Rallying behind this decision?"

"Well, I." Tim blinks, and Roman can see the exact moment his expression shutters and the PR training kicks in. The kid is well-versed in putting on faces - Roman has seen him model his own playboy smile after Wayne himself, but right here and now, Tim is all business and cutthroat cunning, and that is the face of a Drake, through and through. Roman wonders if the kid keeps a catalogue of all the masks he wears day-to-day, wonders how far that catalogue stretches into his walk-in closet that he undoubtedly owns in his penthouse. Or is it second-nature by now, the way he switches between his masks without even batting an eye? It's the exact same sort of charade the Sionises had drilled into Roman's head from a young age, and he would be impressed if Tim wasn't testing his patience with it so thoroughly.

"That depends on what your reasons are," Tim says eventually. _Are they good enough to convince me,_ _nevermind the board?_ he doesn't say, but Roman can read between the lines all the same.

"Look, I don't know who you're fooling, kid, but we all know where you came from." Roman sneers. "You didn't have to jump through all these hoops too when you came crawling to Wayne, did you?"

For once, Tim has nothing to say. He knows there's no way for him to respond without commenting on the things Roman is insinuating.

"How's Drake Industries doing these days?" Roman continues. He remembers the headlines when the kid's family company went bankrupt, and the way Wayne had swooped in immediately and bought out the shares. It felt all too familiar to Roman. He'd thought, at the time, that there might be a sympathetic business partner in the kid once he hit 18 and both of them got out of this horrible merger. He hadn't expected the kid to get in bed with Wayne so soon, and then to lord over him and everyone else just because Wayne favours him... But then again, brats like him are all the same.

"We're doing much better under new leadership," Tim responds coolly. The implicit comparison goes unsaid, but his smug little face broadcasts all the thoughts he didn't have to give voice to. Roman bristles in spite of himself. God, he can't stand that little shit. He wants to wring his skinny little neck and wipe that smug expression off his face, he wants to watch as he gurgles on his last breath, his perfect hair and million-dollar smile replaced by a look of desperation for once.

"Now, if that is all, I would recommend you reschedule this meeting after you've built your case." Tim tips his head back and downs the rest of his coffee, throat bobbing on his slender, vulnerable neck. Roman imagines his fingers wrapped around it, crushing the windpipe underneath until black and blue blossoms all around that pale, milky skin. "I have a press conference—" Tim glances at his IWC Portugieser— "twenty minutes from now, so if you'll excuse me."

And with that, Tim stands up, extending a perfunctory hand out towards Roman. Roman ignores him, seething as he sweeps out of the board room. He can take a hint. He stalks towards the elevator with his secretary in tow, twin pairs of heels clicking against the marble floor in their haste and anger.

Roman catches one last glimpse of Tim just before the elevator door closes. "Have a good day, Mr. Sionis," Tim says with a shrug, and Roman can't jab his fingers against the close button fast enough.

"Self-righteous little cunt—"

Roman storms into his penthouse explosively. It's nightfall by the time he returns to the new Janus Building. Li is sitting out in the waiting area, legs crossed as he flips through the finance section of his newspaper. He peers up at Roman from behind his glasses. "How did negotiations go?"

Roman whips around. "What do you think, Li? God, why do I even keep you around," he scoffs, yanking his necktie off roughly and chucking it onto the coffee table. "Tell me you've got some good news for me at least."

"Well, Janus shares have risen by another three percent over the last two days—"

"Not good enough—"

"—our arms division just secured the big shipment coming in from China—"

Roman waves his hand impatiently for Li to continue.

"—and your eight o'clock is here."

At this, Roman pauses. He swivels back to look at his personal assistant, who's still standing by the elevator, unsure of whether to intrude upon their rapid-fire conversation. She nods once, tightly.

"Send him up."

The day might just be salvageable after all.

Roman throws open the doors to the playroom. Its entrance is nondescript, nestled in between his bedroom and the dining room, and could easily be mistaken for a walk-in closet if you don't know any better. He walks in, past rows upon rows of masks of different shapes, sizes, and designs mounted onto the wall, and stops in front of his intended destination: a large cabinet, where he keeps all his best tools in pristine condition. His eight o'clock, a waifish, dark-haired young man of small stature, trails softly behind him, looking around curiously but keeping his hands to himself, like the well-mannered whore Roman expected him to be.

Good. This'll go over a lot easier if he doesn't fight back.

Roman waves the boy over, gesturing for him to lie down onto the bench in the centre of the room. The boy remains quiet as he divests himself of his clothing and allows his limbs to be buckled into place. This part is familiar for either of them, the boy having had other clients make similar requests of him, and of course, the agency only sends the best performers to Roman.

He remains in character, docile all throughout the preparations until Roman leans over him, a black half-mask looming in his field of vision. "Sir. Are you not going to ask for my safeword?"

Roman smiles, all teeth. "You won't need it," he says, and strikes a gloved fist right across the boy's cheek.

Tim squints blearily down at the coffee machine. The stainless steel parts glint brightly at him in the morning light. Disgusting.

He refills his mug and returns to the kitchen island to pick off the rest of his cereal. It's already soggy, but he can just feel Dick and Alfred's judgmental twin stares all the way from the Manor if he chucks the bowl without finishing it, so he swallows down his pride and with it a subpar mouthful of cereal. He picks up the TV remote in his other hand and flicks through the channels for the morning news.

Channel 9 and Channel 52 both seem a bit too preoccupied with yesterday's WE press conference for his taste, and he makes a face at his own face on the TV. It feels terribly egotistical to say, but he does get tired of seeing his own face. He's no more comfortable playing the part of the genius teenaged CEO than he was when he was trying to fit into the local high schools from neighbourhood to neighbourhood in the wake of his parents' deaths. He keeps his thumb on the "programme" button, fishing for a channel that isn't showcasing his mug in his red shirt and black suit. He finally lands on the GBC channel, which seems to be going through a different part of its news cycle.

He soon wishes he hadn't paused on this channel. A different body in a red shirt and black suit appears on the screen, bloodied and mangled beyond belief. The cereal spoon clatters into the half-empty bowl. Tim's hand flies up to his mouth, barely just holding his breakfast in.

It's a breaking report of yet another body found in the dumpster. What stands out is that this victim is a young man of slim build, with dark hair that reminds Tim of his own, and his attire is too much of a facsimile of the suit he wore to the conference yesterday to be a coincidence. That, coupled with the timing of the murder, makes this seem almost a deliberate choice targeting Tim's very public appearance yesterday.

The reporter blathers on, detailing observations of blunt force trauma and other causes of death.

Tim shuts the TV off and chucks the rest of his breakfast into the garbage disposal.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings (with spoilers):** violence against and murder of an unnamed sex worker.


End file.
